


sweet nothings

by Bloodsbane



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Beaches, Canon Compliant, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Shared Dreams, gratuitous use of flowery language, just very dreamy and soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:41:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22190470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloodsbane/pseuds/Bloodsbane
Summary: Jon stands just so slightly apart from the perfect picture. He hasn't moved closer to Martin as they talk, though his posture grows more relaxed by increments. If only he would let himself slip into the oil and pigment of the dream, suit himself to the texture of the sand and sea. But Martin likes this, too, the sharpness of his deep brown eyes as they refuse to catch any of the surrounding color. Jon has always been so uncompromisingly honest in the reality of himself. Martin could not -- will not -- ever deny the truth of Jonathan Sims.---Martin finds Jon in a dream.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 15
Kudos: 173





	sweet nothings

**Author's Note:**

> hello everyone... i've been having such a fun whirlwind romance with TMA for the past few months. i really, really love the show, and i'm super excited for s5! but in the meantime, i've been reading fic and i'm blown away by how much talent is in this fandom!! it made me a bit shy about posting honestly heh
> 
> ah but here you go, some easygoing jonmartin to get started. i've got other fics in mind, but this was an idea i got struck with last night and i really liked, so it got written up pretty quickly
> 
> please enjoy~

**  
** The soft shuffling gait of the waves is what soothes him into awareness. Next is the sky, soft pink blue yellow torn apart by wisps of white clouds. The wind gently delivers a kiss of sand to his skin. **  
**

Martin isn't sure why he knows this is a dream. Something about it is honest in a way most dreams are not. Martin thinks this strange beach would not be half as beautiful if he were tricked into believing the truth of it.

So he walks. It really is a beautiful place. The shoreline is all rock and sand, but the stones and shells are smooth from endlessly churning tides, soft under his bare feet. Water froths and bubbles against the rocks, then the white breaks apart and dissolves into the sand. The ocean is unbelievably clear; Martin can see fish from where he stands, hardly an inch into the water, waves lapping at his ankles. He dares not wade in farther, reluctant to send the tiny schools of silvery fish away. They swim in clusters, the light from a sunless sky catching in their community of scales, twisting through their bodies and casting a mirage in the form of swirling patterns. Martin can't look away.

Then, suddenly, his peace is broken by another pair of feet in the sand. Such a quiet sound, barely a sound, the whisper of a suggestion of company. But Martin looks as soon as he realizes he is no longer alone.

It shouldn't be a surprise to find Jon there. Martin's boss features in plenty of his dreams. And yet still he is a surprise. The warm light of the sky curls about his dark skin, casting the gentlest of shadows over his eyes, cheeks, shoulders. Jon is wearing a loose, oversized shirt with a band logo on it, but Martin can't seem to process the word -- it's little more than a muted smear across black fabric. He's also wearing sweatpants and has his ankles exposed; if Martin didn't know he was dreaming already, he certainly would now.

Everything about Jon, from his appearance to his expression, distracted curiosity cast out over the ocean -- and all of him disheveled -- stands apart from the beach. He is an intruding element; he does not fit the scene at all. But Martin thinks, _Yes, now everything's perfect._

He smiles and says, "Hello, Jon," and it comes out so easily. 

Jon jumps subtly, and Martin doesn't stifle his laugh. The man of his dreams gives him a startled frown. "Martin?"

"Sorry to startle you, Jon." 

"It's- Where are we? What is this place?"

Always with the questions, even as a dream. Shouldn't he already know? Martin supposed an incurious Jon wouldn't be much like the man he know at all. 

"A lovely beach," Martin answers, because that's what it is. A gust of wind skips across the endless shore and leaps into Jon's long hair, finally freed from its permanent bun or ponytail or braid, and Martin is helpless when he adds, "Beautiful, isn't it?"

"It is… pretty. I suppose." Jon looks at the water with some air of distrust. Martin laughs again. Jon looks at Martin. 

"It's very pretty," Martin agrees, and can't help giggling at nothing over his own words. "I'm sure there are better ways to describe it, though. Even I could probably make a half-decent poem about this place."

The ghost of one floats past his consciousness -- _the ocean sings sweet nothings for me_ \-- words he may try to carry home with him, but they're already lost to the vast sky, the endless shivering field of reeds and earth opposing the sea. Instead of recitations of love, when Martin speaks, he voices a simple invitation: "Want to go in with me?"

"Pardon?" Jon stands just so slightly apart from the perfect picture. He hasn't moved closer to Martin as they talk, though his posture grows more relaxed by increments. If only he would let himself slip into the oil and pigment of the dream, suit himself to the texture of the sand and sea. But Martin likes this, too, the sharpness of his deep brown eyes as they refuse to catch any of the surrounding color. Jon has always been so uncompromisingly honest in the reality of himself. Martin could not -- will not -- ever deny the truth of Jonathan Sims.

But he would still like to go in the water with him.

Martin offers a hand, impossibly fearless in the safety of the known charade. The comfort of an unknowable fantasy erases the wariness that has held him his whole life. Here, he is not cold in the crowd; negative space is full of something or everything. The distance between their fingers an exciting measure of potential energy in inches. All he needs is an answer. "Come on," he beckons. "Come with me. It's okay Jon; it's safe, no need to worry. I wouldn't let anything happen to you, promise." 

An easy promise to make here, in a world of his own desire. With all his heart, Martin wishes he could make the same promise beyond this beach, in a world with silver worms and the feeling of being watched and conditional love. 

When Jon takes his hand, it shouldn't be a surprise. This is Martin's dream, after all. But the fingertips that meet his palm are trembling. The sand shifts as Jon moves closer, delivering him, and soon his palm is pressed against Martin's trembling fingers. 

Martin has never held the hand of anyone, not like this. No one has cared to hold him back.

His grip is steadfast when he guides Jon into the crystalline water. Their feet distort only slightly; Martin stares at the way light breaks past the surface to touch Jon's skin. They unsettle sand and leave small clouds behind as they wade until the water reaches their calves.

Jon has to pull up the legs of his sweatpants with his free hand to keep them dry, but he doesn't resist the gentle pull of Martin's yearning, even stands close when the man finally stops. Back and forth goes the tide, an invisible and uncompromising force. It brings in the smell of salt and brine, the little fishes skirting past their still feet. Jon leans over just a tad, shoulders hunched as he stares down at them. The hand not in Martin's comes to rest on the larger man's arm for support. 

And Martin can't help but think it's a wonderful thing, to be so shamelessly in love.

.

.

.

When Martin wakes up, the last impressions of his dream swim around in the back of his head: rocking back and forth with the sea; Jon putting his hand into the water for a shell; his voice, so deep but so small in the face of that solitary space for two. 

He can't remember what Jon had said. But Martin still smiles into his pillow, soft with sleep, and decides it wasn't important. So long as the rest stays with him, he'll be content.

* * *

Jon stares at the mug of tea, completely frozen. It's not unexpected, the tea. Lunch time means tea from Martin, and maybe even a sandwich if Jon forgets to get lunch on his own for too many consecutive days. Today it's only tea, and Martin has gone with Tim and Sasha to eat, so Jon is alone. Alone with his thoughts and the mug and the memory of a dream. 

Jon has never once dreamt of Martin. He hardly dreams at the best of times; lately, he's been plagued with strange things threatening to be nightmares. They're dark and murky and he's glad they do not stick to him once he wakes. But this was so very different, both in tone and content, and Jon doesn't understand why.

It was a nice dream. He'd been at a beach, which hasn't happened since uni. Jon had gone with Georgie and some friends once, and it was fine, if crowded and windy and much, much too sandy. And he hated swim trunks, honestly. But he'd only worn his pajamas in the dream, which hadn't made sense even at the time. Seeing Martin somehow made even less sense. 

Martin had been in shorts and a tank top. Jon doesn't understand how he could've accepted the sight so easily. He's never seen Martin without long sleeves or jeans -- how could he ever have imagined them bare? _Inappropriate_ , he thinks now with a scowl; at the time he had thought, simply, _Interesting_. 

Strangest of all was Martin's behavior. It wasn't exactly that his manner seemed uncharacteristic, but more so the sense of ease and openness he demonstrated. Martin had spoken without hesitation, confidence and affection quite apparent in his voice, not a stammer to be found. It made Jon feel like they were very close -- closer than co-workers; perhaps closer than friends. It made Jon wish that was true. 

Martin's hand had been warm, so solid and so _real_. The ethereal nature of the landscape only made Martin seem more reliable, focused at the foreground of Jon's attention until everything else was a blurry backdrop of pink and blue. The water was cool but Martin was warm, and Jon touched him without thought or fear, and they hadn't needed to speak to one another in order to enjoy any of it. And Jon had enjoyed it.

He remembered saying, "Martin, thank you for bringing me here," and it had only made sense at the time. Of course this place was of Martin, somehow; who else could bring Jon into the clear ocean at dawn with little more than a promise to hold him close? 

The mug was colored with a blue gradient, the same shade of a midday sky. Seashells decorated the bottom, where stylized white lines mimicked seafoam on the shore. 

The tea was black; it was perfect. Jon held the mug in both hands, letting its warmth seep into his palms to combat the chill of the archive. For a minute or two, Jon's mind wandered, and it did so willingly. He thought of Martin's laughter on the breeze and little green shells in water clear as glass. He thought of oil paints and poetry. 

He thought he wouldn't mind if he had the dream again. 

**Author's Note:**

> i may or may not write more fics for this AU/setting, i really like the concept
> 
> until then though... i did make a tumblr for my TMA art and sharing posts; you can follow me at [lo-fi-charm.tumblr.com](https://lo-fi-charm.tumblr.com/)! just be careful, there are spoilers for the show up to the latest eps
> 
> thanks for reading! ;w; please leave a comment if you're so inclined... i'd love to hear from yall~


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